Читать книгу Shadow Of The Wolf - Rebecca Flanders - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Ky Londen knew something was wrong when he was halfway up the stairs. He might have blamed it on the reaction of Voodoo, the half mutt, half black Lab at his side, but it was more than that. The minute they reached the landing and the door to Ky’s apartment came into view, man and dog froze in place. The dog dropped into a half crouch, pressing himself against Ky’s knee, his hackles rising. Though there was absolutely no visible reason for it, Ky felt his hackles rise, too.

Ky’s apartment was on the second floor of what once had been a fruit market on the corner of Rampart and Canal streets. The first floor was home to nothing but rats now, completely boarded up and always locked. The entire building might have been condemned long ago had not the Historical Preservation Society taken a particular, and in Ky’s opinion, inexplicable, interest in the place. Ky had stayed because the rent was cheap and because the historical society could occasionally be persuaded to foot the bill for improvements that kept the building, for the most part, on the right side of health-code standards. Security doors did not, unfortunately, fall into that category and on more than one occasion Ky himself, having forgotten his key, had opened the door with a well-placed shove of his shoulder.

The apartment was reached via an ironwork staircase that might once have been used as a fire escape. The scarred wooden door that faced the alley was closed, just as he had left it. There was no sign of forcible entry. Nonetheless, someone was indisputably inside. Voodoo knew it, and so did Ky.

He had never worried about intruders before. He didn’t have anything anyone would want to steal, and personal safety was the least of his concerns. But this was different. Now he was worried.

He reached down and placed a restraining hand on Voodoo’s neck, signaling the dog to stay put as he moved forward carefully. The big black dog looked fierce, but he was no hero, and was more likely to melt into a puddle of admiration at the intruder’s feet than launch an attack. Some people kept dogs for protection; Ky spent far more time protecting the dog than the other way around.

He took the remaining steps silently, and the closer he got to the door the harder his heart beat, the drier his throat grew. He paused once to glance back at the dog, but he needn’t have worried. Whatever was waiting for him behind that door had terrified the poor animal into paralysis. It was a state with which Ky could sympathize.

With every instinct in his body, Ky knew that what he was about to encounter was unlike anything he had ever dealt with before. Not a burglar, not an escaped convict he had once put away, not a homicidal ex-client. This was…different.

Ky was licensed to carry a handgun. He worked some of the roughest streets in the city, and the people he encountered were not always feeling friendly toward him. However, since leaving the New Orleans police department three years ago, he had not carried a gun. Until now, he had never felt the need for one.

Although he didn’t really believe that a gun would have protected him from what was inside his apartment, he would have felt better having one in his hand.

He did not waste time looking around for something that could be used as a weapon. There was no point in plotting a strategy. Ky had lived a rough life in an unfriendly world and had survived for almost forty years on his wits, his instincts and his lightning-fast reflexes. Even if he had wanted to, there was no time to change his modus operandi now.

He gripped the handle of the door and turned it slowly. It was unlocked. He flung open the door and flattened himself quickly against the wall, making as small a target of his body as possible.

“I assure you, I am unarmed,” a male voice said from inside the room. “Like you, I have no need for crude mechanical weapons.”

The voice was deep and powerful, now faintly amused or perhaps bored. The accent was cultured and precise but otherwise indefinable. And something about that voice—or perhaps it was the man himself, still unknown to Ky—was compelling. Perfectly aware that his life might be the price he paid for curiosity, Ky stepped cautiously across the threshold of his own apartment.

It was full dark outside, and no lamps were on inside. The only illumination came from the streetlights and car headlights below the windows that faced the street. Nonetheless, Ky’s night vision was excellent. He had no difficulty at all making out the figure who stood before the uncurtained window.

Fight-or-flight adrenaline rushed through Ky’s veins. His heart pounded in his throat, his breath was quick and strong. Every sense was more acute than it had ever been. He recognized the man immediately for what he was. And he had never seen him before in his life.

He was a big man, powerfully built, with a thick mane of silver hair that fell below his shoulders. He wore a patchwork fur vest, which was distinctly out of place for New Orleans, and carried an elaborately carved wooden walking stick. His face was stern and imperious, his eyes crystal blue.

Ky knew he was in the presence of greatness. His knees were abruptly rubbery and he wanted to sit down, but he dared not show any weakness. He thought, This can’t be.

And yet it was.

He squared his shoulders, closing his fists. He demanded, “How did you get in here?”

The other man smiled, and gestured toward the door. “Locks pose no problem for us, do they?”

Ky’s heartbeat jumped again. It was hard to swallow. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The intruder moved away from the window a few paces closer to Ky. Ky stood his ground, but all the man did was lift a medium-size canvas satchel from the coffee table. The satchel was not Ky’s, so he presumed the man had brought it with him.

“My name,” he said, “is Sebastian St. Clare, and I have a business proposition for you.”

Ky said nothing.

“You don’t have a business address,” St. Clare went on. “I presume I was right in coming here.”

Ky said, “How did you find me?” His voice was a little hoarse. He tried to swallow.

“You are a private investigator, are you not?” inquired St. Clare mildly. “How do clients usually find you?”

That was not what Ky had meant and the other man knew it. The rules had been established, and they were simple: St. Clare would ask the questions.

The door behind him was still open. Ky considered turning and leaving. He wondered how far he would get.

Instead, he crossed the room to the kitchen area, opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. He turned, twisting off the cap. “I do divorce cases, insurance fraud and process serving. Which are you?”

“Homicide,” Sebastian St. Clare replied.

A fraction of a second’s pause in the movement of his hand, but no more. Ky lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. He did not take his eyes off the other man.

“I think we should talk.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” Ky replied.

“But first…” St. Clare’s eyes moved past Ky, toward the open door. “Will you allow that pathetic creature to come inside? Please assure him that I won’t bite.” He said it with a perfectly straight face.

Voodoo poked his head around the corner of the door frame, ears flat, eyes wary. When Ky snapped his fingers, the dog crept inside, his tail low and his manner anxious, and went quickly to Ky’s side. He, too, never took his eyes off the stranger, and he made a wide circle around the carpet upon which St. Clare had trod.

“Might we sit down?”

Ky nodded. St. Clare took the lumpy plaid sofa, and Ky, with Voodoo clinging like a shadow to his side, sat cautiously in the reading chair across the room. Every sense, tangible and innate, was working overtime, assessing and observing, accumulating information and processing impressions, trying to make sense of what could not possibly be sitting on his sofa, lifting the satchel to his knee, opening it, showing the contents to Ky.

The satchel was filled with money. The cash was neatly stacked and wrapped with teller’s bands: tens, twenties and fifties. Ky’s eyes scanned the bundles quickly as he tried to keep his expression neutral. There must have been over…

“Fifty thousand dollars,” St. Clare said. “It represents half the amount we are willing to pay for your services. This is yours now, the remainder due when your assignment is completed.”

Ky took another sip of his beer. The dryness in his throat was only partially relieved. “And who was it,” he inquired carefully, “that you wanted me to kill?”

St. Clare closed the satchel and placed it on the table. He said, “You are aware of the man they call the Werewolf Killer.”

It was not a question, so Ky offered no reply. His thoughts were spinning, and there was no way he could predict what the old man was going to say next. None. How could he defend himself if he didn’t know the battlefield…or even if this was a battle?

“I represent a consortium that would like to see this reign of terror brought to an end,” St. Clare stated simply. “You have been chosen for the task.”

Ky could not quite prevent a lift of his eyebrow. “I’m flattered. But we have a very fine police department that specializes in this kind of thing. Maybe you should give them a call.”

“Yes,” murmured St. Clare, holding Ky in that steady blue gaze. “Your police department. The world has seen how effective they have been in dealing with this menace. Not that they are to be held at fault. They are incapable of stopping this killer, we both know that.”

I don’t know anything! Ky wanted to shout at him. This whole thing was insane. None of it could be happening, it all had to be some kind of colossal joke, none of it made sense.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. He didn’t raise his voice or tighten in muscles or even breathe hard; he did not in any way betray his agitation, but he wasn’t fooling himself, either—St. Clare knew what he was feeling. The old man could smell it.

Ky asked the only remaining relevant question. “Why me?”

St. Clare smiled. “Who else,” he demanded simply, “is there?”

“You,” returned Ky sharply. “If you want this killer brought to justice and you insist upon taking the law in your own hands, you go after him. Don’t come to me with your bag of money and expect me to risk my life for people I don’t even know.”

“But isn’t that what you did every day when you were a police officer? And for far less money than this.” He nodded toward the satchel.

Ky brought the bottle to his lips again. “Yeah, well, I’m not in that line of work any longer.”

“A story in itself, I’m sure,” replied St. Clare politely. “And to answer your question…I’m an old man, as you can see. I would be foolish to take on such a dangerous task at my age.”

Ky restrained a snort of disbelief. He suspected the old man could have taken on a dozen men half his age without even becoming winded.

“As for the others,” St. Clare went on, “I could send a squad of trained specialists down here, I suppose, but I’d rather not attract the attention, or to be frank, risk losing any of my top men. None of them know the city like you do, its people, its legal customs, its resources. None of them has as great a chance of going undetected by the killer as you do. Besides—” he glanced toward the window “—there is a great deal of water surrounding this city, which often makes it hard for us to track a moving target. I assume, to function as well as you have here, it doesn’t bother you?”

With Sebastian St. Clare’s first statement, Ky’s throat had seized. His breath stilled, his muscles froze and he didn’t hear anything after the word others. Others.

When his breath returned, it hurt his lungs. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse. “Do you mean…there are more? Others like—”

“Us?” St. Clare inclined a regal nod. “Of course.”

It was one of those moments, and there are only one or two at best, where an entire life changes. Whatever happened from now on, Ky would be able to look back and effortlessly determine when everything crossed over, the point at which the life he once had lived became the life he could never go back to, and it was at that moment when Sebastian St. Clare looked at him with clear unsurprised eyes and said, “Of course.”

Ky’s heart raced. His thoughts scattered in a dozen different directions at once. Part of him wanted to shout “Liar!” and seize the man by the throat and shake the truth from him. Yet another part echoed quite calmly the truth he had always known. Of course.

St. Clare too easily read the struggle in Ky’s eyes and his expression grew sharp with interest. “So,” he murmured, “you didn’t know. I had wondered.”

“How many?” Ky asked, his voice oddly flat.

“Enough.”

Something inside Ky snapped. He flung the beer bottle against the wall. It exploded like a bomb, spewing suds and glass across the room. The dog ran to a corner and began to bark hysterically. Ky was out of his chair shouting, “Answer me, you son of a bitch! Tell me the truth or I’ll take you out, I swear I will! Answer me!”

Sebastian St. Clare was utterly unmoved. Like a patient father enduring the temper tantrum of a deprived child, he waited until Ky’s diatribe had worn itself out. Even Voodoo’s barking became less certain, slowed and finally ceased of its own accord.

Ky stood across from him, his fists bunched, his breathing hard, perspiration beading on his forehead. St. Clare’s calm silence should have infuriated him, and it did; it also made him feel foolish.

Finally, Sebastian St. Clare said gently, “All in good time, my boy. All in good time.”

Ky glared at him, muscles knotted and breath tight, for another moment. Then he swung away, feeling impotent and furious.

“I understand this must come as a shock to you,” St. Clare said. “I confess, it did to me, too, but I’ve had more time to adjust than you have. There are still a great many questions to be answered on both our parts, I think.”

Ky turned back to him slowly, his eyes narrowed. “How long have you known about me?”

“I had heard rumors, but until today I wasn’t sure of any of them. To be frank, it had occurred to me that you might actually be the renegade killer we’re trying to dispose of. The moment I entered your domicile, however, I knew that couldn’t be the case.”

Ky frowned sharply. “How?” he demanded. “How did you know?”

“Dog hair,” replied St. Clare simply. “It’s everywhere. Our killer would not live with a dog.”

Ky stared at him, letting the words roll around in his head. Then he said slowly, “So you’re telling me that this Werewolf Killer is—”

“Appropriately named,” replied St. Clare.

Ky refused to be surprised by anything further he heard. He would not be shocked, dismayed, disappointed or hopeful. Most of all, he would not let anything the man said from now on cause him to lose his temper.

“What makes you think I can do what the best law enforcement officials in this state—hell, in the nation—haven’t been able to do for the past ten months? And if I could, why wouldn’t I have done it by now?”

“You didn’t know what he was,” replied St. Clare simply, “until now.”

Ky turned away again, pushing a hand through his straight black hair, calming himself. For a time, neither of them spoke.

Then Ky looked back at the satchel on the table. He said, “It’s not enough.”

“What?”

“Your price. It’s not enough.”

Abruptly, St. Clare burst into laughter. It was a full, rich laugh, and the genuineness of it caught Ky off guard.

“So,” said St. Clare, “you are more like us than I suspected.”

He looked Ky over thoughtfully. “You’ll take the money,” he said, not so much offering an opinion as stating a fact. “But you’re right, I have something you want even more.”

Ky didn’t answer. He dared not.

“Your mother died in your twenty-first year,” St. Clare went on. “She must have told you about your father, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to survive this long. But she never told you who he was, and you have spent your entire adult life trying to find out. Looking for him.”

Sebastian St. Clare’s eyes were steady on his, as cold as the center of the earth, as hot as blue fire. “I have the answers you seek, Ky Londen,” he said. “And I may be the only person in the world who does.”

Once again, everything inside him grew still. Ky looked very carefully at the man who sat on his sofa. He said, with the same care, “You know who my father is?”

“At present,” said St. Clare, “I have my suspicions. They will take time to confirm. And no,” he added, reading Ky’s mind, “it is not me.”

Ky was silent, this time for much longer. When he spoke at last, his tone was utterly expressionless. “So. This is blackmail.”

“Not at all.” St. Clare seemed genuinely surprised, perhaps even offended, by Ky’s choice of words. “I’ve made you a proposition. You are free to accept or reject it.”

“And if I reject it?”

“Then,” said Sebastian St. Clare, getting to his feet, “you will no longer be any concern of mine. You seem to have lived a full and busy life before I came into it, no doubt you will continue to do so after I depart.”

He picked up his walking stick and moved toward the door. For the first time, Ky was able to see the carvings that decorated the stick. The gleaming mahogany was inscribed on every surface with elaborate renderings of the heads of wolves. Of course.

Sebastian St. Clare walked toward the door, obviously expecting Ky to stop him.

Ky said, “You forgot your money.”

St. Clare looked back at him. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” He opened the door and was gone.

When he was alone, Ky had to grip the back of a chair to remain upright. Voodoo came over to him, pressing against his knee, and whined anxiously. Ky dropped his hand to the dog’s head, taking two slow deep breaths, one after another. He pushed aside the thoughts that kept trying to explode inside his head, breaking his concentration, and he forced himself to listen, to breathe, to focus.

After a moment, he turned toward the door, lifting a staying hand to Voodoo, who looked at him alertly. “Sorry, old bud,” he told the dog quietly, “this one’s too dangerous for you. Hell, it’s probably too dangerous for me.”

Sebastian St. Clare had been right about one thing. Ky Londen might be the only person in New Orleans who could find the Werewolf Killer. But with those same skills, he could just as easily track St. Clare.

He left the apartment, locking the door behind him only because Voodoo was there alone. He went swiftly and silently down the stairs and into the street below, close on the trail of the werewolf.